A/N: The shirt I'm referring to but couldn't find the words to describe – and God knows I tried – is the one Grissom's wearing at the end of Way to Go when Sara comes out of the bathroom in her robe and he tells her how he would like to die. I'm sure you all know exactly which shirt I'm talking about.

Reviews are very much loved and appreciated, and they're how I know if you're (still) enjoying the story. Thank you.


Grissom slowed down on approaching St Michael's church and scanned the adjacent parking lot for space. The church was in the Spanish Colonial Revival style, pure white and traditional for the area, with two striking steeples on either side. Mass hadn't ended yet and the church doors were still shut, the steps leading up to them free of post-Mass chattering and mingling worshippers. He checked his watch; a few more minutes and the church bell would toll eleven, the doors open and the congregation spill out into the quiet street.

After taking a left turn down a side street he followed a low white brick wall for a hundred yards or so before signalling left and pulling into the gated car lot of the cemetery. Cutting the engine with a short sigh, he turned on his seat toward Sara. "I told my mother we'd meet her at my father's grave," he explained. "She'll be a while still and I thought we could have a moment to ourselves with him first."

Smiling at him, Sara nodded. "I'd like that." Her eyes flicked to his chest and she repressed another fit of giggles, shaking her head again as she had done every so often during the short ride over.

A knowing smile pulling at his lips he followed her gaze down to his shirt. "What now?" he asked but there was no mistaking the amusement in his tone.

The look on her face could only be described as one of painful disgust. "I can't believe I let you out of the house in this."

"It's not that bad," he defended weakly.

Sara's smile was indulgent and forgiving. "Only you would think it was…" she paused, her face screwing up in a grimace as she thought of the correct word, finally settling for, "...stylish?"

"Actually, I was thinking of bringing it back home to Vegas with us. It used to be a favourite of mine."

Sara's brow arched. "And when was that? Back in the day?"

He pulled a face at her. "Very funny."

She pinched her lips but not before a small snort of laughter had escaped. "It'll go nicely with that hideous hat of yours."

"Thank you," he said his tone overly pleasant as he ignored her acerbic tone, "That's just what I was thinking."

Sara's eyes widened with shock. "You wouldn't wear it for work, would you?"

His brow waggled with obvious glee. "I can't wait to see Catherine's face." His eyes twinkled mischievously. "It wouldn't be the first time either. I rather enjoy it actually."

"What, the attention?"

He shook his head. "No. You know I don't like that. Winding her up on the other hand..." he let his words trail with a wink, "She takes herself and her opinions far too seriously."

Sara laughed, then shook her head at him and gathered her purse. "Come on," she said, opening the door, "Let's go meet your dad."

Holding hands, they slowly walked down the neat rows of lined-up gravestones, their feet crunching the gravel quietly, the silence surrounding them, one of peace and tranquillity, serenity even. Sara held the wreath they had purchased on the way and he took a moment to look around and reacquaint himself with an old friend. He and his mother had spent a lot of time there after his father's untimely death and rather than feeling scared and unnerved by the place, he'd always been in awe of it, even as a child. Not surprisingly it had hardly changed at all since his childhood, and there was some comfort to be had from that.

"I used to come here often when I was young," Grissom said all of a sudden as they walked. "I like the solitary feel, the tranquillity of the place." He laughed. "Not that it was noisy at home but…" He let the rest of his words trail with a shrug. Sara smiled and nodded that she knew what he meant. "I don't find it bleak or sad here…" He stopped suddenly. "Is that weird?" he asked as Sara turned an enquiring expression toward him.

She laughed. "Not coming from you, no."

He pondered her reply with puzzlement for an instant and then shaking his head resumed walking. "I think you would have liked my father, Sara," he said musingly after a while. "I don't remember very much about him but from what my mother says he was a lot like me. Or…I'm a lot like him."

Sara's brow arched. "You think?"

His gaze narrowed with interest. "You don't?"

Sara opened her mouth and then lifted her shoulder in an uncertain shrug. "Jury's still out?" she ventured, pursing her mouth hesitantly. "I was kind of thinking you and your mother are very much alike actually." She eyed him cautiously, visibly gauging for his reaction. He let out a warm chuckle, and squeezing his hand Sara added warmly, "I'm sure I would have loved him."

Grissom's head whipped round toward her with surprise and he smiled. "And he would have loved you. We're there," he said suddenly, slowing down just as the church bell began to toll the first of eleven strikes. He let go of her hand and facing his father's grave used it to sign himself. Sara watched him for a moment as he paid his respects and when he glanced at her with a smile she leaned down and delicately placed the wreath on the marble. Hands clasped together in front of him and his eyes closed Grissom spent a few more minutes in silent contemplation. When he finished he slipped his hand in Sara's and she turned toward him with a ready smile.

"You okay?" she asked.

His face lit up with a grin. "Sure," he laughed, and shook himself out of his sombre thoughts. "My father says," he raised his free hand, signing, "'Please to meet you, Sara'." Sara's face shone with pleasure and leaning over he pressed his lips to her cheek. "My father was a formal man," he explained quietly as he pulled back, "in the literal sense of the word."

Sara gave out a gentle laugh and turned toward the grave, silently nodding her head in greeting. Movement beyond her shoulder caught his eye and he redirected his smile at the woman approaching, waving a small hand by his side before enquiring with one hand, "Everything okay?"

Betty ran a quick appraising look over his and Sara's appearance, her face eventually pursing favourably and Grissom couldn't help the pang of annoyance her attitude caused. Angling herself toward her husband's grave his mother made a quick sign of the cross before replying, "Father Francis says he missed you at Mass."

Grissom's smile vanished, his face closing off at the unspoken reproach. Releasing Sara's hand he retorted curtly, "He says that every time I'm in town and I've already explained to him-"

His mother raised her hand, silencing him. "I know."

Grissom sighed and flashed Sara a brief smile. She was watching him uncertainly and he quickly explained, "I was missed at Mass, that's all. I get it in the neck every time I come. You'd have thought they'd have given up gathering their lost sheep."

Sara startled at the intensity of his words and at the sudden shift in his mood. She glanced at Betty whose head was bowed toward the grave, her lips moving in prayer, and then back at Grissom. He simply shrugged a helpless shoulder and she held out her hand for him to take. He curled his fingers around hers with a grateful smile.

Leaning toward her, he whispered in her ear, "She'll be done in a few minutes and then we can go."

The wind suddenly got up and he felt a shiver course through him. Betty straightened up and signed herself again. Something in the distance must have caught her eye because she looked up suddenly and stared for a while before whipping concerned eyes toward her son. Frowning, he followed her eyes, glimpsing the familiar shape of Julia's body, four rows down from them. His heart clenched.

Her back to them Julia stood on her own and very still, her head bowed in prayer. A passing image, a memory of a past together, filled his mind and him with sadness, and yearning too. He closed his eyes briefly and then refocused them onto his mother and glimpsing the same sense of sorrow and longing in her eyes realised that unbeknown to him she already knew his biggest secret. A secret he had painstakingly kept locked in a little box, buried deep inside his heart for almost twenty-seven years.

Feeling tears rise he flicked his gaze up to the sky and blinked anxiously. Then he dropped Sara's hand, signing quickly behind her back, "Did you know about this?" His mask was in place, his face dark, his gaze cold and accusatory.

"You had to know she'd be at Mass, Gil." Betty lifted a small shoulder. "We talked briefly. She's paying her respects to her mother."

Again Grissom saw the reproach on his mother's face and he closed his eyes, nodding. He hadn't made the trip up from Vegas to attend Julia's mother's funeral five years ago, much to her chagrin. He'd simply made his excuses, citing work and an unavoidable court appearance to get out of his obligation. "True to form," she had said her disappointment and heartbreak over his actions evident. She had been right, of course, he was a coward, and she and Julia had been left to comfort each other.

He reopened his eyes, chancing a quick look at Sara. She must have picked up on the mood shift because she was watching Julia intently, her face hard, her eyes narrowed with distrust and hostility. His throat contracted and he swallowed, turning away. He felt Sara's hand slide in his, her fingers curling tightly around his in support. Frozen in time he didn't – couldn't – return the gesture. He just stood still, tense and numb, stoic one might say as he desperately tried to keep a lid on his conflicting emotions.

He itched to go and talk to Julia there and then. But he couldn't. He needed to speak to her on his own, ascertain why she was there, what she wanted, what she was trying to achieve. He wanted her to make her excuses and not show for dessert. He wanted to take Sara as far away as possible from this place, from Marina Del Rey, from his past, from his pain. It had been a mistake to bring. Maybe he could get Catherine to call and fake an emergency.

He looked at Sara again and saw the worry etched on her face, the unconditional and endless love she provided him with in her eyes. She smiled at him then with such warmth and tenderness that he knew he would be fine, they would be fine, and that it was time he faced his past and his ghosts.

His mother caught his eye, signing briskly, "I'm going to walk back home and make a start on lunch. Take as long as you need." Sara turned toward her causing her to pause in her signing. She smiled at the younger woman warmly, and continued to do so as she signed to Grissom, "I think it's time you told Sara the truth. All of it."

Sara let go of his hand and bent down to brush a few dead leaves off his father's grave. "How do you know?" he signed back hesitantly, avoiding his mother's gaze.

"Does it matter how I know?" she asked wearily with her hands. She smiled a small apologetic smile and glanced down toward Sara's back. "She deserves to know, Gil. If you're as serious about her as you profess to be then she needs to know, and she needs to hear it from you."

Sara straightened up and frowning refocused her gaze onto Grissom. He smiled at her tenderly before nodding softly at his mother's words. Betty patted Sara's shoulder warmly and then her son's. "Take as long as you need," were her parting signs.

He gave her another silent nod of the head in reply and watched as she turned away. Smiling, she brushed her gaze over his father's grave as though she was speaking to him and without another word left. He turned back toward where Julia had been standing but she was gone.

Sara's fingers threaded through his and he slowly refocused his gaze on her. Looking pained at his sorrow she tugged him by the hand to her and wrapped her arms around him. He closed his eyes, eventually relaxing in her embrace, and leaning into her dropped his head on her shoulder despondently.

Running her hand over his head she asked quietly, "That was her?"

He gave a week nod of the head into her shoulder.

She pulled away and dipped her head, making eye contact. He quickly wiped the mist in his eyes. "We all have a past, Gil," she said. "I know that better than most people, and so do you. There's nothing to be scared or ashamed of," she paused, letting her words trail, waiting for him to pick up the hint.

"I'm not ashamed of my past," he said softly. "There's nothing in it to be ashamed of. It's just…not something I like to revisit, that's all." He could see understanding in her gaze and he smiled.

She lifted her hand to his face. "Come on, let's go back to your mother's."

He thought about what his mother had just told him and then shook his head at her words. He couldn't put it off any longer; Sara had a right to know and that before she and Julia met. "Come," he said, taking hold of her hand as he hurriedly took off. "There's somewhere I want to show you first. Somewhere we can talk."

Grissom walked through to the older part of the cemetery and then out of it through a small gate leading to a side dirt road. He didn't slow down his pace as he headed down the track and Sara had a little trouble following. He took a right turn and cut through a narrow slightly overgrown path. They rounded a corner, and then another one, and suddenly the wind was blowing stronger in their faces and the ocean opened up before them.

"Wow," Sara awed.

Grissom stopped abruptly and tugged Sara's hand back forcefully, back-pedalling on himself. She turned round, her brow furrowed with puzzlement. "I've changed my mind," he said quickly, almost panicky, "Let's go back now."

Sara watched him with growing concern. Then she heard a sound behind her and turned. Tightening his grasp on her hand, he closed his eyes and swallowed the sudden lump in his throat.

"Hello, sweetheart," Julia signed when he finally made himself meet her gaze.